


If You Don't Expect Too Much From Me

by verucasalt123



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Mild S&M, Slash, Spanking, SpikePOV, introspectiveSpike, toppyWes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No sense in hiding something that’s already been seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Don't Expect Too Much From Me

I’m not stupid, or anything. Honest, I’m not, and I know I put a lot of effort into my act, the fake accent, the vulgar language, the running headlong into dangerous situations…I get that. It works to my advantage, most of the time, for people to think I’m short-sighted, uneducated, slow on the uptake. 

 

A few people have seen the truth. Some, just because they could, there was nothing I could do about it. Rupert and his years of studying in the Watcher’s Council, he sailed past my exterior in a hot second, never bothered to pretend, but didn’t let on to anyone else, to his credit. Buffy, because I’d shown her on purpose, I’d let my real self be known to her in any one of a thousand moments of weakness because I **loved** her, which only proves that I can be stupid some of the time. 

 

Everyone is stupid every now and then. Can’t blame a bloke for that, now can you?

 

Angel got it eventually, not Angelus, because Angelus didn’t give a flying fuck and never bothered to think much of me at all. But Angel…there have been a few times I could tell, he got it, he saw through my façade and, like Rupert, never let on to anyone else. He called me on it, though, which was refreshing in a way, but also maddening, because I didn’t want him to be the one to know anything _real_ about me. Buffy, I gave it to her, but Angel, I didn’t want to give him a single sodding thing, broody fucking tosser. A hundred plus years, though, no getting around it eventually, I suppose. 

 

“You’re not as daft as you pretend to be, Spike”, he’d said once, angry, that bit of brogue unintentionally creeping into his voice, bringing back good memories and bad, century-old feelings that trapped me in the past, that old feeling of wanting to make him proud of me, which I’d long since abandoned in favor of wanting to make him pissed off at me. Not that it took that much effort. He’s pissed at me most of the time, just for existing, among many other obvious reasons. Foremost being the fact that I’d shagged his girl a hundred times. Didn’t make a difference to Angel that she never loved me like she loved him ( _loves him_ ), that she was kind to me after a long while but not in any way that would have made a difference.

 

So, it’s been established. Lots of people think I’m stupid, some know better, some don’t. 

 

This, though…it’s something new and different and so utterly confusing that I haven’t quite figured out yet what to do with it. 

 

Wesley knows the truth. He knows I went to university, he knows that my accent is fake and he knows most of the things I do are specifically designed to make people think I’m not very bright. But he never says anything. He doesn’t confront me, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t yell “bullshit” when he knows I’m pretending not to understand what he’s talking about. He’s got the look, though. The look that goes right through the outside of me and directly into what’s real. I know that look, because, as I told you before, I am not, in fact, an idiot. The truth is, I’m incredibly bright and I know lots of things that most of the people with whom I am acquainted assume I would never be able to work out on my own.

 

My immediate conclusion, of course, the first time he kisses me, is that it’s obvious I’ve wanted him to do just that for quite a while. Wesley has a way of sussing out those things that I don’t say. So I kiss him back, because I want to, and I need to make sure he _knows_ I want to, even though I’m reasonably certain that this is information he’s already ascertained through his own observations. 

 

Of course, it doesn’t stop with a kiss. Because if he knows I want him to kiss me, he knows I want him to fuck me. It’s a reasonable conclusion, after all, if you want to kiss someone, you don’t _just_ want to kiss them. That’s a given, no matter who you’re talking about.

 

He takes me to bed, pulling me apart piece by piece, exposing every weakness I have, taking his time and certainly making mental notes about what kind of reaction he gets from me with every move. By the time it’s done, both of us spent and dirty and exhausted, he finally deigns to speak. 

 

“I’d like to do this again, Will.”

 

And that’s it, that’s just fucking **it** , if he’s going to call me Will, just like that, then he’s gotten past every single barrier I’ve ever constructed. He hasn’t asked me if it’s all right for him to settle down there in that place on the other side of my self-made walls, he’s gone right ahead without thinking it’s necessary, he’s just taking what he wants. And he’s not going back. This is something new, and I’m afraid, but I won’t say it. I’ll only say this.

 

“Yes, please, I’d like that too.”

 

It’s the beginning of something, I’m not entirely sure what, but it’s more real than anything I’ve ever known before, and I’m sure as hell not going to give it up. Not for the sake of keeping a secret that’s already been spilled. 

*****

This thing with Wesley, it’s gotten a bit out of hand, in some ways. I’m not one to give up control easily but it seems he’s just kind of taken it without giving me a chance to object.

 

Not that I’m objecting. 

 

That first time, I tried to convince myself it was an experiment on his part, just to see what he could do, how far past my defenses he could get. Now, though, it’s become apparent that any of the defenses I thought I had were not a concern for Wes. He wasn’t interested in taking his time, trying to get through my tough exterior. I remember seeing a television advert years ago. _How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? One….two…three…_ and there was the wise owl answering the question. Wesley was quicker than Mr. Owl. He only got to one before he was right inside of me, immediately breaking down every barrier I thought I’d constructed so carefully, taking the place that he wanted. 

 

More often than not, I have a note on the door of my flat. I’ve started checking for them when I get up after sundown.

 

 _My place. Midnight._ \- Wes

 

 _Robin Hood, eleven pm. Don’t be late, boy._ \- Wes

 

 _Clean this place up, Will, I’ll be back in an hour._ \- Wes

 

I find it disconcerting that the nights when I have no note on the door, I’m disappointed. 

 

But on the nights when I do have a note, it’s even more disconcerting that I never hesitate a moment to follow whatever direction I’ve been given. I curse at myself as I inspect my kitchen counter for crumbs, make sure the sheets on my bed are tucked in tight and unwrinkled, fuss for as long as I can over what I’m going to wear when I meet him at the pub or at his flat. 

 

Where that comes from, I have no answer for. Since I was turned, I’ve never been the submissive type, except when necessary. Now, I find myself inordinately determined to do what’s expected of me. Not in all circumstances, but when **Wesley** expects something of me, I do anything I possibly can to live up to that expectation. On the occasions when I fall short, (which, by the way, isn’t often, you should know that) I don’t question the consequences. If I’ve failed him in any way, I accept that I’ll be punished in some form or fashion. 

 

There are times, though, when it’s harder to take. Once, showing up twenty minutes late to his place, he refused to open the door, and just sent me a text telling me to go home and consider purchasing a wristwatch to help me remember to keep track of time. I stood outside for a while, thinking maybe he was just toying with me, but after half an hour I turned around and went back home, alone, feeling ridiculously dejected. It was four entire days after that when I finally got another note from him, and you had better believe that I’d gone out and obtained (shoplifted, whatever) a watch with an alarm on it during that period of time. 

 

It’s hard to explain how something like that can be worse than what I’m experiencing now. We’re at my place this time, and he’d been unsatisfied when he arrived with my efforts in tidying up. 

 

Apparently I’d forgotten to empty my ashtrays and there were dirty dishes in the sink. Most of our activity occurred in the bedroom, so that’s where I focused my attention, making sure my clothes were all hung up, the bed was neatly made, spraying everything with that _stupid_ Febreze bollocks all around so that my room didn’t smell like cigarette smoke. I thought that was enough, but Wesley did not agree.

 

With my wrists hanging limply from cuffs connected to the hooks he’d installed three weeks ago in the ceiling, and my back and legs and buttocks thrashed to all hell, compelling real tears from my eyes, he speaks, finally. 

 

“Didn’t I tell you to tidy up? You knew I’d be here, right? You certainly know the meaning of such a simple word as _tidy_ , don’t you?” he asks, all the while landing his leather across my skin, pulling the most humiliating sounds from me. 

 

“Yes, yes, I do, I’m so sorry, I’ll do better next time, I swear, Wesley, please…” I have to take a moment to compose myself, try to stop the tears from falling, I don’t want to beg, but I’m compelled to do so, by what force I don’t know.

 

“I’m sure you’ll try, Will, but I have to be certain. You have a lesson to learn, and it’s my job to teach you, I won’t fail you here.” And then the leather strikes again and again, my tears falling freely now, my whispered and whined apologies swallowed by his forceful blows. 

 

Once he’s done, he releases me and lays me on the bed, kissing me and soothing me, telling me it’s all right, I’ve taken my punishment and it’s over. 

 

“Now, go and do as you should have done before. You know what I expect. Come back to me here in bed when you’re finished."

 

It’s not easy to move away from him, all I want is for him to hold me and kiss me and tell me everything’s all right. And how did he get there? How did this man move a comfy armchair into whichever part of my brain would allow such an intrusion? I still haven't worked it out. 

But I do what he wants, I move around my flat, emptying ashtrays, washing dishes and tucking away the cords and controllers from my gaming system which had been lying on the living room floor when Wesley arrived. I even stack my magazines evenly on the end table, trying to make things at neat as I possibly could. 

 

When I return to the bedroom, still crying just a bit, he gets up and inspects the entire flat, seemingly satisfied with my effort.

 

“That’s my good boy, Will. You could have done this before I got here and spared us both from this punishment. No matter, it’s done now and I’m proud of you. For doing as I asked and from taking your punishment so graciously. Now, you get a reward. I’m going to let you come tonight.”

 

I thought I‘d heard everything there was to hear after more than a hundred years. Turns out, I was mistaken. There's nothing in the world that could sound better than that. What happened to me? Where did my big-bad, scary impressive monster run off to since Wes showed up? I still haven't been able to work it out.

 

Being beaten I can take. Being ignored, I cannot. Not when it comes to Wesley, and whatever it is we have. Which I'm sure I'll figure out, and turn to my own advantage. As soon as I want to.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally two shorter stories on the same subject but I combined them here.


End file.
